


Live Without

by Zolac_no_Miko



Category: DCU, Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Essentially Gen, F/M, Gen, I'm Being Dodgy About The Characters (Also Spoilers!), Surprise Pairing Eventually (Spoilers!), canon pairings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zolac_no_Miko/pseuds/Zolac_no_Miko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unthinkable has happened.  Dick must learn to live without.  (WIP)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. ...Welcome to my epic. I don't know how many chapters this will turn out to be, but it's going to be a monster. Here's hoping I can actually finish something for once.
> 
> Continuity is _Teen Titans_ animated series, mostly, cobbled together with bits inspired by the comics verse and _Batman: The Animated Series_ , and stuff I just made up from scratch. Sort of an AU? Takes place after the end of the _Teen Titans_ series.
> 
> Also [available on Livejournal](http://zolac-no-miko.livejournal.com/76031.html).

Rooftop. 1:46 a.m. Robin crouched in the jaundiced shadows, the tone of the sickly half-darkness cast by yellow streetlamps and molding brick buildings matching the musky smell of Gotham City at night: the dank, acrid stench of rotting newspapers, greasy tires and motor oil, and the metallic tang of approaching rain.

For Dick Grayson, this night should have been special. If Dick had at any point remembered the occasion, however, Robin immediately forgot it. It was irrelevant.

For Robin, this was a night like any other night, unremarkable in a hazy string of forgotten, slept-through days and interchangeable late-night missions, a dark smear across the pattern of his life that still felt, maybe would always feel, like a nightmare.

Movement below. Robin shifted weight just slightly, angling for a better view of the warehouse. A black sedan was turning into an alley, pulling up to the side door, killing the engines and the lights. The muscle stepped out of the car first: large, ugly, dressed in dark sweaters and knit caps, hands conspicuously shoved into their bulging pockets. A brief, furtive investigation of the alley, and then their boss stepped out of the car: neatly-pressed suit, hat with brim, briefcase. Robin struggled for a moment to remember his name– _Enzo. Frank Enzo._ He was small-fry, mid-level syndicate scumbag here with his goons to make a drug deal. _Frank Enzo._ …There were so many of them. It was hard to keep track.

The door was opened from the inside. Enzo and two of his goons disappeared into the building, leaving one to skulk, nervously watchful, in the doorway. Robin reached up to touch the transceiver in his ear. “Party’s starting. What’s your ETA?” he murmured. There was no need to speak any louder. His partner could hear him.

“I’m running a little behind schedule,” came the voice in Robin’s ear, raised to shout over the background whoosh. He sounded as tired as Robin felt. “I had to wrap up a little business with the Prankster. Give me ten minutes.”

Robin snorted in dissatisfaction, a frustrated huff of air. He thought for a moment, licked his lips, shook his head. “No good. They looked nervous. They’ll be in and out as soon as possible. …I have to move now.”

“Robin…” A warning tone, which Robin ignored as usual. Robin didn’t know why he still tried. He was no good at The Voice, never would be. Not enough menace. Not enough command.

“I’m going in,” Robin told him.

“Dick, wait---”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve _got_ this. See you in ten. Robin out.” The abrupt sign-off was a cheap shot, but it worked. His partner knew better than to distract him.

While Robin’s hands reached for his utility belt, Robin’s eyes narrowed in contemplation, sizing up his target, judging the angle. He fired the grappler down the roofline, watched the door guard turn to face the clunk of metal as the claw caught on the gutter, and Robin was already falling through the air. Free-falling until the cable caught his weight, swung him at just the right trajectory so that when he let go he was bearing down on the goon like a guided missile. One steel-tipped boot to the back of the head and the man went down like a sack of potatoes; Robin flipped neatly off of him, landing like a cat on his feet before the man hit the ground.

Robin wasted no time in disarming and trussing up the recumbent ruffian, then fired a second grappler, pulling himself up to one of the narrow windows high up on the warehouse wall. Clinging to the grappler cable one-handed with his feet propped against the wall, Robin eased the window open, squeezing into the small space to crouch on the narrow sill.

In a warm pool of yellow light Boss One faced Boss Two over a low, rickety table, lonely in the center of the warehouse floor. Goons on both sides stood back in the shadows, each competing to be the most imposing and impressive silhouette. Enzo was talking. “All right, ‘nuff of this, let’s get things movin’,” he snapped, sharp, impatient.

Boss Two was younger, rougher, a scrawny white guy pretending to be black in a wife-beater, sagging brand-name jeans, and expensive bling. Jay Dodge. Started out cooking up meth in the basements of condemned buildings and selling it on the street; now he was a middleman for high-end buyers and rare, expensive imports. Dodge blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke. “You in a hurry, Frankie?” he smirked with lazy impertinence.

“They’s cops on the other block, over on Division, a break in or somethin’. I don’ wanna hang around.” Enzo rolled his shoulders, shifted his grip on the handle of his briefcase.

“Shit, if there’s a break in, the cops are _busy_ , they won’t bother us,” Dodge countered.

Enzo shrugged, fidgeting. “Yeah, well… and the signal was on earlier.”

Dodge gave Enzo an incredulous look, letting out a short bark of laughter. “What are you, superstitious? That means _he’s_ busy too.”

Enzo scowled. “The hell do _you_ care, Dodge? You wanna stand here havin’ a damn conversation all night? I got places to be!”

The drug dealer rolled his eyes. “Fool, don’t get your panties in a twist.” Turning his head a little he let out a short, sharp whistle then jerked his head toward the table. “Let’s see the dough,” he said, fixing lazy, insolent eyes on Enzo.

Still scowling, Enzo hefted the briefcase he was carrying onto the table, opened it, and spun it so Dodge could see the stacks of crisp bills inside. “Ten thousand,” he said.

Dodge nodded, looking satisfied. One of his guys had, at Dodge’s signal, retrieved a similar suitcase from a small office in the back of the warehouse; now he laid it on the table, opening it for Enzo’s review. It was filled with paper-wrapped bricks of some illicit substance.

Enzo did _not_ look satisfied. “What is this?” he growled. Every goon in the room shifted position, hands inching nearer to poorly concealed weapons; tension crackled in the air like electricity. “This ain’t the amount you agreed on with–”

“The price gone up, man.” Dodge’s voice remained careless and unconcerned, but is muscles were tense and his eyes were hard. He shrugged as if to say, _What can I do?_ “Take it or leave it.”

Frank Enzo flexed his meaty hands, glancing between the dealer and his goons. His face flushed red, and shoving the money toward Dodge, he yanked the briefcase full of drugs across the table and snapped it closed. “You’ll get what’s comin’ to you, Dodge. Tony ain’t gonna like this–”

“I’m thinking that’s _your_ problem, Frankie, not mine,” Dodge said, picking up a stack of bills and flipping through it idly.

Enzo’s face got even redder. “Jay Dodge, you’re a dirty, scum-sucking son of a bitch.” He grabbed up the briefcase full of drugs, preparing to leave.

Dodge sneered. “Yeah? You know what’s _worse_ than a dirty, scum-sucking son of a bitch?”

“ _ **Me.**_ ” Cape fluttering, Robin bore down on them from above.

“Shit, it’s the kid!” someone yelled. Half a dozen hands reached for guns simultaneously. Neatly disarming the thugs with a rain of Birdarangs, Robin landed on Frankie Enzo, his boots connecting heavily with the back of his head. The mobster collapsed in a heap, unconscious.

“Get him!” The assorted muscle rushed forward, hands curled into fists. Robin flipped off of Enzo. Pulling out his bo-staff and extending it, he twirled it once and then laid into the goons as they came within striking distance.

Robin became a small whirlwind of pain, landing faster-than-sight precision blows, to the temple, the groin, the solar plexus. As he fought, his mind kept a running tally. _One man down for the count… Dodge is running, can’t let him escape… two and three down… four down, but he’ll be up in a second… where’s five?_

Five was in the corner of Robin’s eye, pistol in hand, finger already pulling the trigger. Robin was shifting weight, turning, grabbing one corner of his cape. He felt the force of the bullet like a sledgehammer to his shoulder, but he’d changed the angle just enough; the bullet ricocheted off of the titanium weave of his cape. He heard a cry of pain from behind him.

He rushed the shooter, disarming him with a jab to the wrist and putting him down with a solid thwack to the skull. Robin spared a glance for the man who’d been shot. He was curled on the ground, clutching his leg. _He’ll live,_ Robin decided, and turned to chase down Dodge.

Jay Dodge was running toward the door of the small office. The now-open door, out of which was pouring a small army of thugs armed with an assortment of automatic weapons.

Robin’s eyes widened, his boots skidding with an ugly scrape on the concrete floor as he changed direction. A moment later Dodge’s goons opened fire. _Make yourself a harder target… move at an angle, change your tack…._ Robin cut toward the table, grabbing the edge and tipping it as he leaped over, huddling behind it amid a hail of bullets. _This table won’t last long… need cover… smoke…._ He reached for his utility belt.

The immense CRASH of a shattered skylight announced the arrival of Robin’s backup. “He’s here! It’s the Bat!” Panicked cries accompanied erratic, ineffective gunfire as the face of every Gotham criminal’s worst nightmare landed amid a shower of glass.

Robin smiled darkly. _Through the skylight. Classic._ “Smokebombs,” he said quietly, under his breath, then chucked them over the edge of the table. He waited two seconds for the coughing to start then rejoined the fray.

By the time the smoke cleared, the fight was over. Robin frowned at a man-sized dent in the corrugated-metal wall of the warehouse. _He’s punching too hard again,_ he thought. Pulling out a handful of zip-ties, he started securing their groggy opponents. “Gotham’s finest?” he asked.

“On their way.”

Robin yanked the last zip-tie tight. He straightened, raising an eyebrow at his partner. “Was that ten minutes?”

“I put a bit of hustle into it.”

“Heh. Glad you did.”

Below the Bat-mask, lips tightened into a stern and disapproving line. “Robin–”

“Save it for home,” he said, looking pointedly at the semi-conscious criminals surrounding them. He headed for the door. “We should go. Cops are on their way, remember?”

His partner followed him into the alley. “Need a lift?”

“Nah, I’ve got the R-cycle.”

“I could take that, too,” was the dry response.

Robin turned, raising an eyebrow. “Bit conspicuous, don’t you think? …Look, don’t worry about it. I’ll meet you there.”

Robin turned his back and headed for the dark, trash-cluttered opening of a narrow alleyway across the street from the warehouse. A puff of wind, heavy with the scent of rain, lightly tousled his hair; there was no sound, but he knew his partner was already gone.

As Robin approached his bike, half-hidden in the shadow of a dumpster, he touched a button on his utility belt, deactivating the R-cycle’s security systems. Crouching next to the bike, he did a quick and redundant check for any evidence that the vehicle had been tampered with. Satisfied, he reached for his helmet… and all his senses went on high alert.

Someone was watching him. There had been no noise, no movement in the corner of his eye– none that registered on a conscious level anyway– but Robin could feel eyes on him.

Robin’s hesitation was so small it would be invisible to all but the most practiced of eyes. He completed his motion, picking up the helmet. His posture remained relaxed and easy, but he was straining his ears for any out-of-place sound, and his eyes were on the R-cycle’s mirrors. _No one behind me…._ Cradling his helmet in one arm, he ran a hand through his hair, giving his surroundings a brief, casual glance. As he slid his helmet over his head, he carefully reviewed the snapshot his mind had taken.

Nothing seemed amiss. He frowned, going over possibilities and options as he swung one leg over his bike. It could be that it was nothing– a paranoid hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and stress. Not _likely_ , but possible. Or maybe one of the homeless that slept in the abandoned garage across the street was awake.

Robin decided the danger was minimal. Nonetheless, as he revved his engine and tore out of the alleyway, he was plotting out a route that would lose even the most determined tail.

~ ~ ~

Twenty minutes later Robin roared into the Batcave on the R-cycle, soaked to the skin from the downpour that had finally burst over Gotham. His partner was there waiting for him, holding a fresh towel. The cowl was thrown back, exposing the earnest face and that ridiculous curl of hair on the forehead. There was still something that felt so very _wrong_ about seeing that face framed by the black and gray of the Batman uniform.

Robin pulled off his helmet and peeled off his mask, letting the vigilante fall away and becoming Dick Grayson once more. Peeling off the top half of his sopping-wet uniform as well, he made a face at the bruise that was blooming on his shoulder. He poked it gingerly, then fetched an ice pack from the infirmary before accepting the proffered towel.

“What happened?”

“Got shot,” Dick replied distractedly, holding the ice pack in place with one hand and toweling his hair with the other. He glanced over at his partner, then raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if you keep that frown up your face is going to stick like that.”

Clark merely frowned deeper. “You could’ve been killed.”

Dick sighed. “So, what else is new? It kind of comes with the job. …Anyway, you’re being dramatic. I was handling it.”

The frown didn’t go away. “You should’ve waited for me.”

“I waited as long as I could! Another second and Enzo would’ve been out the door.”

Clark crossed his arms. “Dick–”

“ _Clark_.” Dick tossed the towel aside. “One of these days Superman is going to be busy in Metropolis or on the other side of the world and something big is gonna go down here in Gotham, and I’m going to have to take care of it by myself. And I _will_. It’s important that the bad guys see that Batman’s still around, but I don’t need a babysitter. _You have to let me do my job._ ”

“And _you_ have to take care of yourself. You need to be more careful.” Clark’s voice softened. “Gotham can’t afford to lose you, too. Neither can I.”

Low blow. Dick looked away, running a hand through his hair and sighing. “…I’m not going anywhere.”

“I worry about you, Dick.”

Dick met Superman’s concerned gaze. “I know. I’ll be careful, I promise,” he told him.

“Master Dick, you’ve returned.” Alfred was coming down the stairs, carrying a plate of sandwiches and two steaming mugs on a tray. “I trust this evening’s exercise went smoothly?”

“…Matter of opinion,” Dick replied, glancing at Clark. He snagged a sandwich. “Thanks, Alfred. Chicken salad? Mmmm.”

“You’re very welcome, Master Dick.” Alfred turned to Clark, who had removed the black gauntlets and picked up a mug. “Master Clark, I’ve prepared the guest suite for you.”

Dick’s eyebrows went up, and he swallowed a bite of sandwich. “You’re not flying back to Metropolis tonight?”

Clark smiled. “Well, I thought I ought to stick around, considering what day it is.”

Dick blinked. “What day…?”

“Your birthday, I mean.”

Dick stared blankly for a moment, then turned his head to look at the time and date in the corner of the Batcomputer’s screen. Halfway through the motion he knew it was a mistake, but it was too late; Alfred and Clark would’ve already noticed.

 _…Huh. Look at that. I’m seventeen._ He turned back to Clark and Alfred. Annoyingly, both of them were starting to frown, a touch of concern in their eyes.

“You forgot your own _birthday_?” Clark asked incredulously.

Dick pasted a sheepish smile on his face. “Heh. Wow. Is it spring already?”

Clark just looked _sad_. “Dick….”

Dick felt a flash of irritation. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s not a big deal. I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh. When was the last time you’ve taken some time off to just _relax_?”

“He hasn’t,” interjected Alfred, arching an eyebrow in elegant disapproval.

“Exaggeration, Alfred,” Dick grumbled, shoving the rest of his sandwich in his face.

“Only slightly, sir,” Alfred replied dryly.

Dick decided to ignore that. Grabbing a mug and taking long, slow sips of peppermint tea, he turned his eyes to the Batcomputer. It was just past four in the morning; there was still time for him to review the police reports from Englewood and analyze the pattern of muggings in the Sharks’ territory to determine where–

But Clark was stepping in front of the Batcomputer, shaking his head. “Uh-uh. No, Dick. No more work tonight. Go to _bed_.”

Dick rolled his eyes at him. “Yes, _Mom_.” It wasn’t worth arguing; Dick didn’t feel much like hanging around with Clark and Alfred fussing over him like hens. Stealing another sandwich, he took it and the tea to go as he started the long trek up the stone steps to Wayne Manor.

~ ~ ~

As Dick stood in the shower with his eyes closed, washing the grime of Gotham’s streets from his skin, the weariness that always lurked just beneath the surface began to steal over him. There were very definitely parts of him that were _glad_ he was being forced to stop working and rest.

He denounced those parts as traitorous. With Bruce gone…. Dick let out a long breath, resting his forehead against the tiles of the shower wall. With Bruce gone, and Clark spending most of his time in Metropolis or with the League, Gotham City was Robin’s responsibility. To shy away from that, to shirk his duties would be to dishonor everything Bruce had worked for….

Dick twisted the tap and stepped out of the shower. When he emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a lush terry robe, Alfred was waiting for him. Dick handed over the rest of his soaked and soiled Robin costume; he knew it would be cleaned, pressed, folded neatly, and waiting for him in the Batcave by the time he woke. Good old Alfred. “G’night, Alfie,” he said softly.

The eyes of the old butler– father, friend, and ally to Dick as he had been to Bruce– crinkled fondly at the young master of Wayne Manor. “Goodnight, Master Dick. Sleep well. And… happy birthday.”

Dick smiled for Alfred, shutting his bedroom door after the old man. Crossing the room, he flopped down on his bed and lay on his back, staring bleakly at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he said to the empty room. “Happy.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dick was sixteen, and life was pretty good. He was on good terms with Bruce again, and he had gone home to visit on a couple of occasions. A few months ago Batman had even come out to Jump City and met the Titans. Not long afterwards Dick had finally, with Bruce’s blessing, shared his identity with his teammates.

Now it was July; the weather was gorgeous, and for a few weeks the Titans had actually been able to enjoy it. Crime was down; the Titans had put most of Jump City’s supervillains behind bars, Slade hadn’t been heard from in months, and no one new seemed to be in a rush to fill that gap. The Titans still had to deal with the usual small-time thieves, burglars, and drug-dealers, but that wasn’t much of a challenge for a crime-fighting team of their caliber.

And so today had been like most of the days of the previous weeks: sunny, warm, and quiet. The Titans had made a perfunctory patrol of the city in the morning. When they had come across minimal trouble, they returned to the Tower. Robin had set them to training for a few hours and then given them the rest of the afternoon off.

Afternoon had passed into evening. The sun was still up, just barely. Empty pizza boxes lay scattered around the kitchen counter. Beast Boy and Cyborg were playing _Ultra Racer X_ ; Raven was sitting on the couch, quietly reading and pretending she wasn’t enjoying their company.

At least, that had been the scene the last time Dick saw them. He and Starfire were curled up together on his bed; both were still in uniform, but boots and gloves lay in piles on the floor, as did Robin’s cape and mask. Robin’s laptop was at the foot of the bed, propped on a small pile of pillows. They were watching _Nigel Anaconda and the Golden Fleece_ , and Dick was finding that trying to explain the jokes to Starfire was twice as hilarious as the movie itself.

Dick snuggled contentedly closer to his girlfriend, breathing in deeply. He liked the way she smelled. There was something unique about her scent, literally unlike that of anyone else on the planet. Something to do with her alien physiology. He couldn’t put into words what the difference was or why he liked it; he just knew that he _really_ liked it. He wondered if it was weird to like smelling one’s girlfriend. He decided he didn’t care. He could live with being weird. He _loved_ how she smelled.

Dick pressed a kiss to her temple, just at the hairline, and smiled at the soft, pleased, “Hmmm~,” that she made. He wasn’t really watching the movie anymore. He didn’t need to; he’d seen it about a million times and could probably recite it in its entirety from memory. He watched Starfire watching the movie instead.

After a few moments the Tamaranean turned wide, perplexed green eyes on him. “Please,” she asked, “what is a Greek pig-dog? It is some manner of terrible beast, yes?”

Dick cracked up. His girlfriend pouted at him. “Rooobiiiin, you are laughing at me! Again!” She poked him in the ribs. _Hard._

“Ah! No, I’m not! Honest!”

Starfire gave him the most doubtful, suspicious look she was capable of, which with her large green eyes and sweet face mostly just looked adorable. Against his will a large, goofy grin spread across Dick’s face. Starfire threatened to poke him again.

Dick held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay! Maybe this time I _was_ laughing at you a little bit. I’m sorry.” He leaned up on one elbow and kissed her, soft and lingering. He pulled back, adopting a suitably penitent expression and working his baby blues for all they were worth. “Do you think you can forgive me this one time?”

The eyes worked their magic, and Starfire smiled. But then she sniffed, adopting a haughty expression. “I suppose I can find it within my infinite mercy to be lenient, just this once.” Her eyes gleamed wickedly.

Dick snorted; of course her grammar would be perfect for royal pronouncements. “Gee, thanks, princess,” he returned dryly. They grinned at each other and shared another brief kiss.

Dick settled back into the pillows, and Starfire snuggled up against him, resting her head on his shoulder. She slipped a hand up under the shirt of his uniform, sliding it over his stomach and chest; he shivered and reached to pull her closer.

Just at that moment there was a knock on the door. Dick sat up and paused the movie. “Yeah?”

His door slid open; Cyborg and Beast Boy were on the other side of it, wearing troubled faces. Cyborg spoke first. “Robin, hey man, uh… sorry to interrupt, but there’s this old guy on the screen, and he’s asking for you.”

Dick frowned, sliding his legs off the bed. _Old guy…?_

“Well, uh, actually he said he ‘would very much like to speak with Master Richard Grayson,’” Beast Boy hastened to add, putting on a faux English accent.

Dick had been in the process of leaning down to retrieve the discarded bits of his costume; at this he abandoned the motion and headed straight for the door, unmasked and barefoot.

“It seemed like it might be something serious,” Cyborg warned as Dick passed him. Dick merely glanced at him; it would have to be something serious for Alfred to call the Tower.

Dick paused for a moment at the threshold to the common room, alarmed by what he saw. It was indeed the kindly old face of Alfred Pennyworth on the main viewscreen, and there was a subtle nuance to his habitually grave expression that Dick had never seen before, a certain hollowness around the eyes that terrified him.

He swallowed, stepping into the room and crossing to the viewscreen, passing Raven where she stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor. The last rays of the setting sun were beaming through the Tower’s full-length windows; Dick touched a button on the console to increase the tint and cut the glare. Taking a breath, he looked up at his friend’s haunted and haunting eyes. _How bad is it?_ he wanted to ask, but something wouldn’t let him. “…Alfred?”

“Master Dick,” Alfred said, and this was just as frightening; the man sounded _weary_. Alfred hesitated, glancing past Dick to the Titans. Dick turned his head to find that Cyborg had already taken an anxiously-hovering Starfire by the shoulders and was gently steering her back through the door; likewise, Raven had hold of one of Beast Boy’s arms and was hauling him bodily into the hallway with a, “Come on, Garfield. Let’s go.”

The door slid shut behind them.

~ ~ ~

The Titans waited anxiously in the hallway as the minutes ticked by. Beast Boy fidgeted. Starfire clasped her hands, staring worriedly at the door as if by sheer will she could see through it. Cyborg crossed and re-crossed his arms, then looked at Raven. She had her hood pulled up over her head, and she seemed to have shrunk in on herself. Cyborg frowned. “…Rae?”

In the shadow of her hood her eyes glinted; she, too, was staring fixedly at, or beyond, the door. “Something bad has happened,” she said hoarsely, almost whispering. “Something very bad.” She spoke with quiet conviction. Her voice would’ve sounded flat and emotionless to a casual stranger, but her friends, who knew her best, could hear the pain in it, echoing the feelings washing back to her through the special link she had with Robin.

This did nothing to inspire calm amongst her teammates. Cyborg frowned more deeply, lifting one arm to view his display screen and tapping a few buttons. “Alfred’s his butler from back home, right? I’ll check the news reports from Gotham City, maybe there’s some emergency….”

Before he could touch another button, the door to the common room slid open with a whoosh and a click. Dick stood in the doorway, blue eyes wide and blank, pale, wearing a shellshocked expression that in the Titans’ experience had no business being on his face. Not their leader, not the Boy Wonder, not _Robin_.

The Titans each hastily stepped toward their leader, and each faltered, unsure. Raven threw her hood back, round, worried eyes fixed on Dick. “What is it? What’s happened?” she asked, her voice quiet but insistent.

Dick lifted his head a little but didn’t quite focus on any of them. He swallowed, visibly searching for words and having difficulty finding them. With his mask, cape, gloves, and boots missing, he looked smaller somehow. Fragile. It was all so very _wrong_.

Finally his lips parted, and a moment later words came. “Bruce is… Bruce was shot. He’s… he’s dead.”

There was a collective gasp from his assembled teammates. Beast Boy was the first to speak. “Batman’s… Batman’s _dead_?” More than horrified, Gar looked _crushed_ , as if someone had told him they’d killed God, or cancelled Christmas.

Starfire tore her hands from where she’d clasped them to her mouth and stumbled forward. “Robin–” she said, and then her arms were around him, clasping him tightly to her. Dick looked distantly surprised, as if the surrounding bodies and faces had lost all meaning to him, and he hadn’t expected them to be capable of will or action. He lifted his hands, hesitated as if unsure what to do with them, and settled them gingerly on her back.

As if this were an agreed-upon signal, the other Titans stepped forward as one, folding themselves around their leader and friend. Beast Boy attached himself to Dick’s side like a limpet, wrapping his arms around both Dick and Starfire. Cyborg stood behind Dick, resting his hands on the teen’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, man. I’m… I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. Raven clasped Dick’s upper-arm tightly with one hand, staring intently, agonized, into eyes that would not meet hers. There was no need for her to say anything; he felt her pain as strongly as she felt his.

Dick’s eyes fell closed and for a few moments the Titans stood like that, still and quiet. Then Dick lifted his head and opened his eyes, swallowing and shifting position restlessly. The knot of arms and bodies around him loosened then broke apart.

Dick was still not quite meeting anyone’s gaze. “I’m leaving for Gotham immediately. There’ll be the funeral, and….” He gestured vaguely, already heading down the corridor.

Cyborg nodded briskly, business-like. “I’ll run a pre-flight systems check on the T-ship. …How long will we be gone for?”

Dick froze mid-stride. After a moment he turned, mouth opened to reply.

Beast Boy cut him off. “Dude, don’t even. Of _course_ we’re coming with you!”

A few different expressions struggled for dominance on Dick’s face. He sighed, looking away uncomfortably. “It’s… it’s not like you guys can actually _go_ to the funeral. The Teen Titans don’t have any connection to Bruce Wayne… or Dick Grayson, for that matter.”

“Then we’ll sit in your fancy house and wait for you, whatever! We’re _going_ ,” Gar replied, stubborn and exasperated.

“Robin…” Starfire began, and then, more softly, “…Dick. We are your _friends_. We will not let you go through this alone.”

The expression on Dick’s face stretched thin and fragile. He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “…Someone needs to keep an eye on Jump City….”

“Got it covered,” said Cyborg. “This is what the Titans network is _for_ , right?” He tapped a button on his arm console. “Cyborg calling Kid Flash. Hey, man, you there?”

A face dominated by a pair of startlingly blue eyes and a shock of red hair appeared on the tiny viewscreen. “Hey Cyborg, what’s up?”

“We’re going to be out of town for a bit. Think you and Jinx can keep an eye on Jump City and the Tower for us?”

“Yeah, no problem. …How long’s ‘a bit’?”

Cyborg glanced at Dick. Dick hugged his arms to himself, frowning a little. “I… I don’t know,” he said. “A few days? A… a week? Maybe?”

“Call it a week-ish, and we’ll keep you updated, okay?” Cyborg told the speedster. “Can you be here in… let’s say an hour, and I’ll give you your security passcodes?”

“Sure, but what am I going to do with myself for fifty-nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds?” Kid Flash asked impishly.

“You could take me to dinner,” Jinx’s voice suggested dryly from the background.

The speedster flashed a grin. “Oooh, gotta run, looks like I have a date. See you in sixty!” The screen went black.

Cyborg looked over at Dick. “There,” he said gently. “All taken care of.”

Dick let out a long, slow breath. “Thank you.” He waffled in the corridor for a moment then all but fled to his room, vanishing into it.

~ ~ ~

Cyborg waited just outside the main entrance to Titans Tower. He gazed solemnly upwards at the stars that sparsely dotted a sky washed out by city lights. His thoughts rested elsewhere. On Robin. On Batman.

 _Damn,_ he thought. _Damn._

Movement on the water caught his eye, and a moment later a colorful blur resolved itself into Kid Flash and Jinx, who was cradled serenely in his arms. Kid Flash set her gently on her feet, and she straightened her windblown hair.

Cyborg tapped a button on his forearm panel, activating the clock function. It had been _exactly_ one hour since he’d spoken to Kid Flash, to the second. “Right on time.”

“Always~!” Kid Flash grinned. Jinx smiled fondly at him.

Cy jerked his head toward the Tower. “Come on, let’s get you set up.” He stopped in front of the security scanner next to the door. Cables extended from the fingertips of his left hand, plugging him into Titans Tower’s computer system; with his other hand he typed a few quick commands on a keyboard. “Okay, we’re using a retinal scan, voiceprint identification system, and password–”

Jinx cut in. “We _have_ done this before,” she reminded him. “What’s the password?”

“Waverider.”

Jinx stepped forward, letting the scanner photograph her retina and speaking the password into a microphone. Kid Flash did the same. Cyborg typed a few more commands then disconnected from the console, leading the way into the Tower.

“Where’s everybody else?” asked Jinx as they passed through the hallways.

“In the T-ship already,” Cyborg said.

Kid Flash raised his eyebrows. “Wow, you guys really are in a rush, huh? What’s the big emergency?”

Cyborg hesitated. Jinx and Kid Flash were friends, Titans, and trusted allies, but they didn’t know Robin’s identity, much less Batman’s.

Kid Flash must have seen the conflict in Cyborg’s eyes, because he raised his hands, forestalling him. “Top Secret? Say no more, it’s cool.”

Cyborg gave him a grim smile. “Thanks,” he said. “And thanks for covering for us.”

“No problem,” Jinx told him. “You know what they say… ‘when there’s trouble….’” Kid Flash cheerfully whistled the T-communicator jingle, and Jinx gave him an amused glance.

As they followed Cyborg into the T-ship hangar, they sobered instantly. The subdued atmosphere projected by the Titans’ founding members was palpable. Beast Boy and Raven were grim; Starfire looked outright distressed. Robin’s expression was, as usual, inscrutable, but he was clearly impatient to depart; the very second they came through the door he started warming up the engines and, slipping on his headphones, began a conversation with air traffic control. Jinx and Kid Flash exchanged a glance, but said nothing.

“Looks like we’re off,” Cyborg said. “Thanks again, we’ll be in touch.” He clasped hands briefly with both of them and left them standing, silently watchful, by the hangar door.

Cyborg slid into his seat, pulling the canopy down after him and slipping his headphones on. He poked a few buttons on his console; all systems were go, and Robin had the con. “Hey, uh, Robin? You want me to fly? I mean–”

“I’ve got it, Cyborg. Thanks.” Robin pressed a button and the roof of the hangar began to retract.

“You sure? Because I can–”

“Vic. Please.” Robin’s grip on the control column tightened. “I’d rather be… doing something.”

Cyborg slid a hand over his bare head, sighing. “Yeah… got it.”

Robin pulled back on the yoke and the T-ship lifted off. At first Robin spoke only to the air traffic controllers; once the T-ship cleared Jump City airspace, Robin stopped speaking entirely. The Titans fidgeted, but kept their peace.

After half an hour in the air Robin abruptly spoke up. “Cyborg, can you take over?”

Vic jerked, sitting up straight; he’d been lost in his own thoughts. “Yeah, sure, man.” He reached for his control column.

“Switching over to you.” Robin quickly flicked a few switches and pushed his control column into the locked position then fell back into his chair and ripped off his mask, flinging it aside.

Starfire had spent the entire journey thus far staring worriedly at him from beneath her cockpit canopy. Now she pressed a hand against the glass, straining towards him a few more inches, as far as the confines of her cockpit would allow her to go. “Robin? Are you–?”

“Kori.” Dick shut his eyes tight, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyelids. “Please don’t. I just– I need to be still, and not talk, and not _think_ and just– sit. Right now I just– I need that. Please.”

Starfire bit her lip, looking like her heart was breaking. But she didn’t speak again, merely resting her forehead against the glass and resuming her silent vigil.

Dick let out a long, slow, shaky sigh. He pointedly removed his headphones and set them aside, then just sat with his fingertips resting over his closed eyes. He didn’t move or speak again for hours.

It was the longest flight the Titans had ever taken.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and the Titans reach Gotham City. Introductions are made. An absence is keenly felt.

The eastern horizon glowed faintly blue as the T-ship approached the outskirts of Gotham City. Dick inhaled sharply, lifting his head for the first time in three hours and reaching for his mask. With every indication of unflappable calm he replaced his headset, adjusting the microphone before speaking. “Cyborg. Give me the con, please? I’ll take us in.”

Thick clouds hung low over Gotham, heavy with impending rain and smoldering with the lights of the city below. Robin pushed the T-ship into a steep dive as they entered the city limits, plunging through the dense veil. Gotham City, exposed, was an explosion of bright lights that, paradoxically, only served to emphasize the dark negative space of its shadowed alleys.

Robin aimed directly towards a dense cluster of the city’s tallest buildings– Gotham’s financial district. The T-ship screamed into the midst of them at high speed, Robin banking sharply to avoid monoliths of steel and stone and glass as he took a labyrinthine path through the skyscrapers.

The Titans held on for dear life. Beast Boy sacrificed his octopus’ tentacles long enough to yell, “Robin! Dude! I’m gonna be _seasick_. Do we have to– _watch where you’re going!_ ”

Robin’s gaze strayed frequently from his twelve o’clock, his eyes flicking down and to either side as he guided the T-ship with careless nonchalance through a maze of narrow streets and looming buildings. “We’re not supposed to be here. I’m bringing us in literally under the radar– and the financial district is mostly empty at this time of night.” Robin yanked abruptly on the control column, sending the T-ship tearing around the corner of a Gothic tower, bringing the Titans’ canopies within inches of its snarling gargoyles. “Also,” he continued, “confusion tactic. Any eyewitnesses will have conflicting accounts of our flight path. …You don’t fly to the Batcave in a straight line. That’s one of the Rules.” The Titans shot past Wayne Tower, and Robin turned his head, watching it for a few seconds as it dwindled behind them.

“ _Dude_ **AAAAAHHH!!** ” Beast Boy shrieked. A pedestrian walkway stretched across the T-ship’s path, connecting two bank buildings at their twentieth floors across a wide avenue. Robin twitched his wrists before he’d even started to turn and look, and the T-ship slipped neatly under the obstacle. A night janitor gaping at them from within the glass tunnel was visible for a split second before shrinking into the distance.

“Relax. I _have_ done this before,” Robin pointed out wryly, the barest flicker of his habitual dry humor reappearing.

Robin made for Gotham Harbor, leaving the cover of the buildings behind. “Switching to aquatic mode,” Robin said, flicking some switches. “Brace yourselves.” The T-ship fell from the air as if shot down, shuddering with the impact as it dived into the sea.

“The entrance to your Cave of Bats is… underwater?” inquired Starfire hesitantly, unsure whether it was okay to speak to Robin again.

“One of them,” Robin answered briefly. He guided the T-ship up the coast to the north a little ways then into what appeared to be a shallow sea cave. When he touched a button on his utility belt, a cleverly disguised door slid out of the way, revealing a dark, flooded tunnel. Once they were inside, away from prying eyes, Robin brought the T-ship to the surface, the sub’s running lights affording the Titans a view of a low ceiling thick with stalactites.

Faint light appeared ahead of them, and grew, and suddenly the ceiling lifted away, all but disappearing in the shadows as they glided into an immense limestone cavern. The T-ship pulled up to a small jetty next to another submersible and a boat, both of which looked mean and fast and sported black paint jobs. Robin killed the engines, lifted his canopy, and hopped to the jetty, where he stood for several long moments staring up into the dim expanse while his friends disembarked and gathered around him.

“Welcome to the Batcave,” he said unnecessarily.

Robin led the way up a long, steep staircase cut into the stone. The Titans’ arrival at the top of the staircase was punctuated with gasps and whoas as the Batcave’s main levels came into view, revealing the Batcomputer, Batmobile, Batwing… trophies….

“Duuuuuuude,” breathed Beast Boy reverently; then, “Dude! What’s with the big money and cards and the dinosaur and stuff?”

“They commemorate battles won and villains defeated.” Alfred Pennyworth’s cultured tones echoed through the Batcave as he crossed the broad platform towards them.

"Alfred!" Robin cried, and then he was running. His sprint ended with his arms clasped tightly around his friend, face burrowed into his shoulder, Alfred's arms encircling him with gentle firmness.

The old butler and the young hero stood that way for a little while, eyes closed. Words passed unspoken between them, a simple confirmation: _You're here... I'm here...._

Slowly, reluctantly, Robin pulled back, giving his friend and surrogate father a good looking-over. He didn't like what he saw; Alfred had never looked his age before. He wondered what Alfred saw when he looked at him.

Robin turned to the Titans, who were respectfully standing a short distance off, waiting. Beast Boy was staring at the Batmobile, his jaw hanging open; a moment later he snapped his attention back to Robin, looking guilty. Although his heart was heavy, Robin's lip twitched just a little.

"Guys," he said, "this is Alfred Pennyworth. Alfred, meet the Titans: Beast Boy, Cyborg, Starfire, and Raven." He gestured to each of his friends in turn.

"So this is your team." A new voice came from across the Cave. Its source was a tall, broad-shouldered, but otherwise unremarkable-looking man in a plain suit and thick frames. The man came down the last few steps to the main level of the Batcave, hands in his pockets.

"Clark–" Robin said, and he was off and running again.

The Titans exchanged bewildered looks; Robin had never mentioned any Clarks.

Robin flung his arms around Clark and held on tight. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered.

Clark's own grip tightened a little. "It's good to see you, Dick," he murmured.

Robin pulled back, giving Clark the same critical scrutiny he'd given Alfred, frowning at the tired sadness in Clark's eyes and the lines of his face. A spark of fond amusement lit in Clark's eyes, and he poked Robin's forehead with a finger. "Frown lines, Dick. You don't want to end up like–" He cut himself off, a flash of pain returning to his face. Robin swallowed, reached for Clark's hand, squeezed it.

After a moment Robin jerked his head towards Alfred and the Titans, tugging on Clark's hand. "Come and meet my friends," he suggested softly.

Clark offered a brittle smile and nodded, retrieving his hand as they crossed the Cave and tousling Robin's hair with it. Robin batted at the offending hand, glaring, then poked Clark in the ribs in ineffectual retaliation.

"Everyone, this is– this is, uh...." He glanced at Clark; Clark nodded. "...Heh. This is Superman."

The Titans gaped, glancing back and forth between Clark and Robin, not sure whether to believe him. Robin's lip twitched. "Glasses, Clark," he said. Clark obligingly removed his glasses. He ran a hand through his hair, and his signature curl fell into place on his forehead.

The Titans' jaws dropped to about the vicinity of their kneecaps. "Oh my– _wow!_ " Beast Boy burst out. "You're really– I mean– I mean, uh... it's an honor, Mr. Superman, sir!!" He snapped to attention, his spine straight; Robin was reminded strongly of the first time they'd met.

Clark laughed, stepping forward and offering his hand. "It's Beast Boy, right? Please, call me Clark."

A grin spread slowly over Beast Boy's face as he reached forward to shake hands with Superman, blushing under the green. "Garfield Logan," he said.

Cyborg stepped forward, extending his hand. He attempted to remain stoic in the face of celebrity, but his eyes were lit up like Christmas lights. "Victor Stone," he said as Clark took his hand. "Like BB said, it's an honor to meet you."

"Likewise," Clark said lightly, but with perfect seriousness. He was confronted next by Starfire, who beamed delightedly but held herself tall and dignified as she pressed her right fist to her chest. " _X'hal!_ I am Koriand'r of Tamaran," she intoned solemnly, clasping his hand.

Clark gave her a grave nod then turned to Raven. "It's... just Raven," she said, blushing as she shook his hand.

"I'm glad to finally meet all of you," Clark said. "You've been doing great things in Jump City. I'd like to thank you on behalf of the Justice League for your dedication." The Titans each seemed to gain several inches as their spines straightened with pride. "And I'd like to thank you personally for keeping the Boy Wonder here out of trouble." He laid a hand on Robin's shoulder, smiling fondly down at him.

Robin snorted softly. "Clark, you have strange notions about the line of work we're in. Finding trouble is what we _do_." He ducked his head, starting to peel his mask off.

Cyborg smirked at Robin a little. "It's a tough job, but we do our best," he told Clark.

Running a hand through his hair, Dick glanced at Alfred, who had been quietly standing by. The butler cleared his throat discreetly. "I imagine all of you must be quite worn out from your journey. I've prepared the guest rooms. Would you care for some breakfast before you retire?"

Alfred's suggestion was met with a murmured chorus of affirmatives. Dick pulled off his gloves, leaving them with his mask on the Batcomputer's console and joining the queue as it filed up the stairs towards the manor.

With each step upward that Dick took, the vise that gripped his heart squeezed tighter. Batman hadn't been in the Cave; as the grandfather clock swung open Dick was forced to face the fact that Bruce wasn't going to be in the manor, either. Wayne Manor was the same as always: luxurious furnishings, soft, warm light. Yet the furniture looked stiff and unwelcoming, and the light seemed bleak. The manor looked like it had to Dick when he had stepped reluctantly into it for the very first time, when his parents had died.

The manor looked like an open grave.

Dick followed Alfred and the rest of the group to the brightly-lit dining room, where a hot breakfast was ready and waiting for them. Six place-settings were arranged at the opposite end of the table from where Bruce's favorite chair stood empty. Dick swallowed. The others started sitting down, reaching for toast and scones and fruit and bacon and hot porridge; Dick stood behind a chair towards the center of the table and stared out the open window, where the first, faintest beginnings of daylight glimmered. "Alfred," he said.

Alfred was standing off to one side, hands clasped behind his back. He would already have eaten. “Yes, Master Dick,” he replied softly.

Dick's hands tightened on the back of the chair. “...Where is he? Is he– is he here?”

All noise and motion around the table stopped. “Master Bruce is yet at the morgue,” said Alfred in the same quiet tone. “Dr. Thompkins is taking care of everything. I am led to understand he will be returned to us tomorrow.”

There was a moment of dead silence. Dick's thumb memorized the shape of a small device carved into the chair's ancient wood. “Has there been any more news...?”

“Not much as of yet, I am afraid. A few details, but the man has yet to be identified.” Alfred glanced at the lost and bewildered expressions on the Titans' faces then glanced back to Dick, his eyebrows quirking upwards just slightly.

“No, I– I haven't said anything to them,” Dick replied to the unspoken question. He reached up, dragged a hand down across his mouth. “Would you please...?”

“Of course, Master Dick.”

The chair next to Dick was empty. Dick hauled it away from the table. “Sit with us, Alfred,” he murmured. Alfred nodded and sat, clasping his hands in front of him on the table.

Dick pulled out his own chair and sat as well, looking down at his hands splayed flat on the rich tablecloth. Starfire was sitting to his other side, and after a second she placed her hand on his, curling her fingers underneath and squeezing. Dick looked at her for a long moment, then turned his hand and lifted, pressing her knuckles to his lips before returning their hands to the table, fingers entwined.

“Last evening Master Bruce attended the fundraiser for the Gotham Parks and Gardens Initiative,” Alfred began. “The function was being held at Ballard Park. There was security, of course, but at an outdoor event....” The lines around his eyes tightened. “I was told the man simply walked into the party, carrying a firearm in his pocket. He was dressed properly; no one took notice of him until he started screaming.” Alfred shook his head slightly, his lips thin. “It is doubtful that Master Bruce was a target. In all likelihood no one was. The man is believed to be mentally ill, and possibly drugged as well. He started to scream at one of the servers, just a young girl, and then he pulled his piece on her. There wasn't time... Master Bruce put himself between the girl and the gun. He threw the serving tray... it disarmed the man, but not before the gun went off. It was....” Alfred's features sagged with pain. “...It was an unlucky shot. It went through the throat, grazed the spinal column....” His voice became shaky. He swallowed, attempted to regain composure. “...It was quick.”

Dick's hand was gripping Kory's so hard it had to hurt, even for a Tamaranean warrior. He wore a frown that was familiar to the Titans, to Alfred and Clark. It was the frown of Robin trying to unravel a problem, compiling the data, integrating new information with the old. “It doesn't make sense,” he said.

“No, sir. It doesn't make sense,” Alfred murmured.

Dick inhaled sharply and blinked, turning to Alfred and gripping his arm, looking intensely into the old butler's eyes as if trying to communicate by photons alone. Alfred laid a hand on the teen's shoulder, meeting and holding his gaze sadly.

A few moments passed. Dick reclaimed both of his hands, picking up a scone and turning it in his fingers pensively. The Titans poked at their food. Clark sat with his fingers tented in front of his lips, watching Dick.

After a tense silence, Dick looked up. “Vic,” he said.

Cyborg jerked. He cleared his throat. “...Yeah, man,” he said softly.

“Could you work up active holograms for the team, like the one you made when you went undercover in the H.I.V.E.? Civilian disguises.”

“Sure, no problem. It would take a few hours... half a day at most.”

Dick nodded sharply. “Do that, please? For the... for the wake, and the funeral.” Cyborg nodded; Dick stood up, still turning over his scone. “You guys should eat, and get some rest. I need to make a phone call.” He hesitated briefly then went for the door, waving down any attempts to follow him.

In the hall next to the grand staircase, Dick pressed a hand to the wall and let out a long, slow breath, running a hand through his hair. Then he set his scone down on the telephone table, picked up the receiver and dialed, first entering the code to route the call through the Batcave's secure line.

The phone rang for a long time. Dick waited patiently. The man he was calling never picked up before the eighth ring; it was how he weeded out the people he didn't actually want to talk to.

After the ninth ring there was a slight click. “...Pennyworth?” guessed the voice on the other end of the line.

“It's me.”

“Dick!”

“Hey, Vince.”

“I thought I might be hearing from you. I... I saw the news about Bruce and... aw, _jeez_. I'm so sorry, kid. I know he meant the world to you. I can't quite believe it myself... you know I owe him everything. And... I kind of thought he was... I dunno, indestructible, you know?”

Dick sank into the chair next to the phone table and leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed and receiver pressed tightly against his ear. “Yeah,” he said.

“...Anyway, I'm... I'm really sorry, Dick.”

Dick swallowed. “Thanks, Vincent.”

“Sure thing, kid.” The sound of a throat clearing. “So. How can I help? You need me to spin some lies?”

“Yes, please, Vince. The usual. Debit card activity, passport checks, plane tickets... where's my floating boarding school supposed to be docked these days, anyway? I haven't checked.”

“Ummmmm....” Sounds of clicking and tapping. “Poreč.”

“Croatia?” Dick opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling. It was more daylight than not, now.

“That's the one. ...Who knows you're in Gotham?”

“Just Alfred. That's for Richard Grayson _and_ Robin.”

“Robin going out this evening?”

Dick narrowed his eyes, voice dropping to a growl. “ _Yes._ ”

More tapping sounds. “I'll see if I can have Richard coming in late tonight, then.”

Dick rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye. “Sounds perfect. ...And, Vince... I've got the Titans with me. They're all going to need the full treatment. I was thinking, my friends from school?”

“Ahhhh... yep, yep, I agree. You wanna give me anything?”

“Cyborg's working up some holographic projections later today for their civilian disguises. We'll send you copies when they're rendered. Everyone speaks American English... Starfire's going to have to be foreign, her grammar's not always perfect. Somewhere in Europe, I think, somewhere not well known. Cyborg and Beast Boy are _definitely_ American... Raven could be from anywhere, really.” Dick frowned a little. “We don't have much prep-time,” he said, thinking out loud. “...I'll give you first names. Cyborg is Victor, Beast Boy is Garfield, Starfire is Kory... umm... let's make it Rachel for Raven.”

“Right, gotcha. Same flights as you?”

“That would be best.”

More tapping as Vince typed. “Well, that's enough to get started. Anything else?”

Dick thought about it. “Not right now. If I think of anything else I'll send it with the rendered images.”

“Alrighty, I'll get right on it. You just leave everything to ol' Vinnie. And... stay safe out there tonight.”

“Thanks, Vince. Goodnight.”

“Good morning to you too, kid. 'Bye.”

Dick hung up.

~ ~ ~

Dick lay in his old bed, in his old room, and stared at the ceiling. The sun was up, now, but it was dark in the room with the heavy blackout curtains drawn. _It doesn't make sense,_ he thought. _Assuming that a man with a mental illness wouldn't dress himself neatly and expensively, put a gun in his pocket and walk into a party full of Gotham's socialites– and drug himself, if he was drugged– then someone else dressed him, gave him the gun, and left him there to– to what? Why? You can't assassinate someone that way, there's no way to direct your assassin to your target... so what is the_ point? _...I need more data. I need to speak with Gordon. I need more data._

Dick's hands clenched in the bedclothes, fingers twisting and tangling silk sheets. His hands started to shake. It became difficult to breathe, and his vision blurred. Dick sniffed loudly and blinked; he tasted salty mucous in the back of his throat, and hot tears ran down the sides of his face and into his ears. “ _Damn it_ ,” he whispered.

There was a soft knock at the door. Dick pushed himself up and stared at the door wide-eyed, breath caught in his chest, tears cooling on his cheeks. A moment later the door opened a crack and Koriand'r slipped into the room, clad in a wispy nightgown. “Star–” The word strangled in his throat.

Starfire hurried across the room and crawled into the bed, wrapping her arms tightly around him. He rolled into her, burying his face in her shoulder and clutching at her clothes. “Robin,” she murmured into his hair, “I am here. I am here.”

“It isn't fair,” Dick choked out. “It isn't right. For him to die like that, at a party, by _accident_... shot by some crazy who didn't even know, wasn't even trying to kill him. He was _Batman_. It isn't _right_!” Dick gasped; it twisted into a sob.

Starfire frowned, stroking her palms soothingly against his back. “He was protecting someone, yes? Is that not what he has always done? Bruce Wayne protected that girl; he saved her. I think he would be glad.”

Dick shook his head mutely against her shoulder, gasping, his whole body trembling as he fought tears and lost. Starfire stroked a hand through his hair. “Dick... it is alright to cry. Even a warrior sheds tears when his brother falls in battle. Let _go_....”

She closed her eyes when she felt Dick's shoulders collapse, relax, as he gave in. “There,” she whispered. “Cry for as long as there is need; I will be here. I will not leave you. My Robin, my love... I will never, ever leave you....”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick wakes up to a world disrupted and overturned. He has some tough decisions to make, and he won't have Bruce to help him... not this time, not ever.

Dick shifted slightly, blinking as he woke. He was face to face with a sleeping Starfire, their limbs tangled together beneath the covers.

Dick's eyes felt sticky and tender. He closed them again, briefly, letting each moment of the last eighteen hours wash through him and slot itself into his memory. _Bruce is dead. I've come to Gotham. Bruce is dead._

Dick tried to disentangle himself from his girlfriend without waking her, but as he slipped out of the bed she stirred, blinking fuzzily. “Robin...?” she mumbled.

Climbing partially back onto the bed, Dick brushed a hand over her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple to reassure her that he wasn't trying to sneak off. Then he headed to the bathroom and shut the door. He set his hands on the counter and stared into the mirror; his reflection stared back: red, swollen eyes, pale skin, greasy, mussed hair; he looked tired, like he hadn't slept well (he hadn't). Making a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, Dick reached for the tap to wash his face, only to change his mind halfway through the motion and head for the shower instead.

When Dick emerged from the bathroom in a terry robe and a cloud of steam, Kory was still curled up half asleep in his bed. She blinked at him woozily and smiled. Dick offered up the best smile he could summon then turned to sort through his clothes, the ones he'd packed into the T-ship that Alfred had brought up from the Cave, and the ones Alfred always kept in the manor for him, just in case. It felt odd to him to have to think about style and color, to brush his fingers across folds of cotton, polyester, and silk. Dick almost never wore civilian clothes at the Tower.

There was a whisper of cloth behind him, a soft shift in the floorboards, and Kory wrapped her arms around him, snuggling into the terrycloth. She gave the back of his neck a kiss, and Dick turned his head to get a proper one. “I am going to go and become dressed. Okay?” she murmured.

“'Kay.” Dick turned and pulled her into another quick kiss. “Love you,” he whispered. Starfire smiled and slipped out of the room.

Dick selected a pair of dark-wash jeans and a light blue, checked, collared shirt. He was just buttoning up the shirt when there was a light knock on the door; a moment later Alfred stepped into the room. “Hey, Alfie.”

“Good afternoon, sir.” Alfred pulled the curtains open, revealing a steady, drizzling rain. “There is a cold luncheon waiting in the dining room, when you are ready.”

“Thanks, Alfred.”

“And....” The butler hesitated.

“Is he here?” asked Dick softly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“If you would follow me to the parlor, sir.”

Swallowing his dread, Dick followed Alfred down the stairs and through the manor. He stepped into the parlor and stopped, hovering in the threshold. Eyes fixed on the gleaming black casket across the room, Dick turned his head slightly and asked over his shoulder, “When's... everything supposed to happen?”

“The wake will be tomorrow, sir. The funeral is scheduled for 10:30 a.m. the day after that.”

Dick nodded absently; then, taking a deep breath, he walked slowly, deliberately, towards the casket. Alfred remained at the door. Dick could feel Alfred's presence like a physical pressure against his back, warm and solid.

Soon– too soon– he could see into the open casket, see the man that lay inside. Bruce Wayne. He looked... peaceful. Dick's lips twisted at the thought. That was so wrong. 'Peaceful' was probably not a word that had ever been used to describe him.

Dick stepped closer, laid his hands on the edge of the casket. There was a faint perfumey smell in the air, probably to cover up the smell of decay and preservatives, he thought. It was not a cologne Bruce ever would have worn.

Dick looked down at Bruce, unsure what to do with himself. He didn't want to touch him. He remembered touching his parents, holding their cold, dry hands and crying until Mr. Haley had led him away. He knew academically that it was socially acceptable, even expected, for mourners at the casket to touch their deceased loved one. 'Loved one' was wrong, though, insufficient. This was _Bruce_. There had been a time when this man was the center around which Dick's universe revolved.

He didn't want to touch him, was afraid to. And yet... the more he looked down at the body in the casket, the more the sense of _wrongness_ that pressed in on him grew and grew until some irrational part of him screamed that this couldn't be real, this was a trick, maybe somehow this wasn't really Bruce's body lying in front of him but a fake, and suddenly he had to know, had to _check_ , and his hand shot out and he touched Bruce's wrist—

And it was skin, just skin. Bruce's skin. Dick's thumb brushed against a small scar that was shaped like a number four on the inside of Bruce's wrist, just barely under the edge of the cuff of his sleeve. Dick knew he had gotten it from a jagged piece of shrapnel that Batman's armored gauntlet had almost but not quite stopped, when they had gone up against Two Face together and failed to defuse one of the bombs in time.

Dick pulled his hand back, looking around for a chair. He hauled one over next to the casket and sat in it, head bowed, hands clasped and pressed to his lips, as if in prayer. But he had nothing to say to God, no questions to ask Him. There was nothing he needed of God just then. The man he needed lay before him in the casket.

“Bruce,” he whispered, “what do I do?” He closed his eyes and waited for an answer.

~ ~ ~

Dick ate mechanically. He had no appetite to speak of, but he knew the importance of a healthy diet to his physical and mental well-being, so he pushed the food that tasted like cardboard relentlessly past his lips.

Raven and Starfire ate with him, quietly discussing meditation. According to the girls, Cyborg and Beast Boy were still asleep. Alfred was off somewhere, probably accepting a sympathy call or a delivery of flowers; both the telephone and the doorbell had been ringing practically nonstop all day. There was no sign of Clark.

Dick finished eating. He was staring at a pile of finger sandwiches, trying to decide if he needed to eat more, when Alfred bustled into the room. “Master Dick?”

“Yes, Alfred?”

“I've just been on the phone with Master Bruce's lawyer. I've scheduled an appointment with him to come out to the manor at nine a.m. tomorrow, to review the will.”

Dick sighed. “Thank you, Alfred. ...Do you know where Clark is?”

“Mister Kent left to check into his hotel. He is supposed to have arrived in Gotham City late this morning.”

“Ah. Right.”

The loud jangling of the telephone emanated from the direction of the foyer. “Pardon me, sir,” Alfred said, and slipped out of the room again. Dick picked up another sandwich.

“Some of those sandwiches are vegetarian, right?” Beast Boy plopped into a chair and collapsed on the table, clearly still half asleep.

“Alfred's got it taken care of,” Dick assured him. “There's almond butter and apricot jam, roasted vegetable, and pesto tofu.”

Beast Boy closed his eyes. “Awesoooome....”

Cyborg came into the room, lightly smacking Beast Boy's head as he passed. “Gar, don't drool on the expensive furniture.” He pulled out a chair and sat, turning to Dick with a compassionate look. “Hey, man. How are you doing?”

“I'm—” Dick paused. He'd been about to brush the question off, say, 'I'm fine'... but he wasn't fine, and his friends deserved honesty. “I'm... I'm not sure how to answer that question.”

Cyborg nodded. “Fair enough. If there's anything we can do to help....” He shrugged. “...You know we've got your back.”

Dick nodded. “...Thanks.” He remembered to take a bite of sandwich, chewed, swallowed. “...About those active holograms... when you're doing the hair and clothes and stuff, think... the kind of kids who live in places like this.” He twirled a finger in the air, gesturing to the manor. “You're supposed to be my friends from school. And let me know when you've finished the renders. I've got our guy fabricating backgrounds and aliases for all of you, and he'll need those faces.”

Cyborg nodded sharply. “You got it.”

“Is that lunch I smell?” Clark's voice preceded him into the dining room. He sat heavily in an empty chair and reached for a sandwich. There were bags under his eyes; he wasn't used to being short on sleep, and he probably hadn't slept any better than Dick had. “Is the traffic on Nimbus Highway _supposed_ to be that bad at this time of day?” he complained after swallowing a bite of salmon salad.

“It can be,” Dick replied. “It's always worse when it rains for some reason.” He glanced circumspectly at his friends; they were still clearly in awe of Superman, to go by the way they were staring. “You know, you don't _have_ to drive,” he pointed out.

Clark shrugged. “I need to put some mileage on the rental car.”

“Hmmm. ...And which hotel is Clark Kent staying at?”

“Norris Regal Park Place.” Clark paused a moment. “I'm... not actually going to be staying there.”

Dick nodded. He looked down at what remained of the sandwich in his hands: two small lumps of bread pressed together, absent the filling. The idea of putting it in his mouth was beyond contemplation. He started shredding the bread.

“The Justice League is having a... a gathering, on the Watchtower,” Clark said after a few moments. “After the funeral. All of you are welcome, of course.”

Eyes widened around the table. “The _Watchtower_?” Garfield breathed. “With the _Justice League_?”

Raven was watching him. “...Dick?”

Dick looked up. He nodded. “Of course. We'll be there. Thank you.”

Clark nodded and took a bite of his sandwich, and then he asked... someone else a polite question about... something. Dick let the quiet conversation fade away around him and went back to shredding his bread. When there were only crumbs left he brushed off his hands, and then he watched Clark eat sandwiches until Clark noticed him staring.

Clark raised an eyebrow at him. “...Okay, Dick?” he asked tentatively, frowning a little because he already knew the answer to that question, could feel the answer in himself.

“When you have a moment, Clark, I'd like to speak to you. Privately,” Dick said.

Frowning a little more, Clark popped a last bite of sandwich into his mouth, wiped his hands on a napkin, and stood. “Where to?” he asked.

Dick thought a moment. “The Batcave,” he said. It seemed appropriate.

With Clark trailing quietly behind him, Dick made his way down the long stone staircase to the cave below the manor. He crossed the Batcave's floor, drifting to a stop behind the large leather chair at the Batcomputer. Batman's chair. He stood looking at it for a few moments before resolutely turning away from it and facing Clark. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I need a favor. I'm going to ask something horrible of you.”

Clark raised his eyebrows, shoved his hands in his pockets, and waited.

Dick pulled in a slow, deep breath; he let it out again. “We can't afford to let... to let Bruce's death be connected to the disappearance of Batman. ...I need you to go out on patrol with me. I need you to be Batman.” Clark's jaw tightened, and when he exhaled it came out shaky. “I know,” Dick said. “I know. I'm sorry. I hate the idea too. But Batman can't disappear. At least, not yet. And Clark... you're the only one who can do it. You've got the right build, and you can use your powers to fake the training. I can help you, if it's necessary... I can provide direction through sub-vocalization. ...You _know_ him, Clark, you know how he acts, how he works. ...Worked. And... I trust you.” Dick's expression twisted painfully. “I'm sorry, I know it's awful, and I'd do it myself if I could, but... but I can't!” He gestured to himself helplessly. “...I need you, Clark.”

Clark scrubbed a hand down his face, hollow-eyed. “...He wouldn't like it. He was adamant about Superman keeping his nose out of Gotham. Bruce wouldn't like it.”

“Well Bruce isn't—!” Dick cut himself off sharply, clenching his fists and looking away. “...Bruce isn't here. I'm here. And I'm not him. I can't _be_ him. I can't do this by myself.”

Clark sighed heavily, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again. “Okay,” he said.

“Thank you,” Dick said, turning back to Clark. “I'm sorry. ...We need to start tonight.”

“ _Rao_ ,” Clark cursed softly.

Dick swallowed. “I know. But it's bad enough Batman didn't make an appearance last night—”

“It's all right, Dick.” Clark held up his hands. “It's a lot to ask, but... you're the one asking.” He offered up the tiniest curve of his lips. “And you're right... it needs to be done. ...So. What do we do?”

Dick squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. This part was easier– outlining a plan. He was good at plans. “I'm going to review the database. I've... been away for a while, and we're going to need to know _everything_ Bruce knew if we're going to pull this off. You can take a look at it later. You... read faster than I do. For now, you should probably spend some time practicing moving like Bruce, pulling your punches. You'll need to practice faking exertion and effort... Batman's strong, but not Superman strong. Just wear one of the _gi_ for now... we don't want to damage the Suit. Don't worry too much about breaking the training equipment, though. It can always be replaced.” Dick ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “...You'll have to learn how to use all the gear....” He huffed a breath, a small exhalation, almost of amusement. “You'll have to learn how to _swing_. ...I'll come over and help you when I'm done here.”

Clark stood with arms loosely crossed, listening attentively. When Dick finished Clark shook his head a little, fond admiration and a little wistfulness showing in his eyes. “You've gotten really good at this,” he said. “When did you grow up?”

Dick shrugged a little and looked away, embarrassed. Clark smiled at this, just a little; then, he squared his shoulders and sighed, loosening his tie as he headed for the training area. “Don't take too long,” he said. “I knew Bruce well, but you're the expert.”

Nodding, Dick let out a breath and turned away from Clark to face the Batcomputer. He looked at the chair again, stared it down like it was an enemy. He'd sat in that chair hundreds of times, but it was _Bruce's_ chair, like it was Bruce's computer, Bruce's cave, Bruce's _Mission_ \---

He huffed a sigh, laid a hand on the black leather and rolled the chair back and sat, deliberate in every movement. Then he typed a few commands. “Identify user,” requested a synthetic female voice.

“Robin.”

“Voiceprint accepted.” The computer chimed and the screen cleared, and a program started running unprompted. A window opened on the screen, simply labeled 'ROBIN'; below this label was a blank field, empty but for a blinking cursor.

Dick frowned; this had never happened when he'd logged in before. A brief investigation turned up no useful information about the mystery program; it was heavily encrypted. Dick sat back in the chair and pressed a thumb against his lips, eyes narrowed at the screen.

 _He left me something. It wants a password, but I don't know what it is. Bruce wants me to open it, and he knows I don't know the password. So it has to be something I can guess._

Dick ran his tongue across his bottom lip then leaned forward and started typing. He let his fingers run almost on automatic, choosing words and phrases more-or-less at random, words and phrases that held special meaning for Robin, or Batman, or Dick or Bruce. He tasked a part of his brain to remembering which words he'd already tried so he wouldn't waste time on repeats. He set the rest of his mind to trying to work out Bruce's logic.

 _I should have been expecting this,_ he thought. _It would be so like Bruce to leave final instructions in case of death or disappearance. That must be what this is, my final orders for how best to carry on the Mission. So, maybe something specifically relating to the Mission? Or to death. ...Or both. Yeah. Yeah, I think you were morbid enough for that._ His fingers kept typing, selecting key words from a narrower subset. _It's impossible... it's_ unlikely _that he would have anticipated the circumstances of his own death. So...._ He typed, 'ZUCCO'. He typed, 'HALEYCIRCUS'. _Hmmmm. Is this a message_ to me _or_ from him _?_ He typed, 'CHILL'. He typed, 'CRIMEALLEY.' _...No. Too obvious._ His fingers paused for a moment then continued. 'ZORRO'. 'MARKOFZORRO'.

There was a chime as the program accepted the password, and the window refreshed, revealing an embedded video. Dick's heart pounded in his chest. He steeled himself then clicked 'Play'.

The image of Bruce appeared. He was sitting where Dick now sat, wearing the Batsuit but with the cowl pulled back. His gloved hands were clasped before him on the console; the lines of his face were calm and grave. The date stamp in the corner of the window read '04-14-08'. _That's just after he visited Titans Tower,_ Dick thought distractedly, then pulled his attention back to the recording. Bruce was speaking.

“Dick,” Bruce began. “If you're watching this recording, there's a pretty good chance that I've died. If that's the case, then... I'm sorry.” The businesslike tone dropped from his voice, and something soft and sad showed in his eyes. “You've lost too much already. But you've got a lot of people who care about you, so... I know you'll be all right.”

Bruce paused for a moment, exhaling softly. Dick watched a small wrinkle appear on his forehead as he opened his mouth to continue. “I could tell you what to do,” he said. “I've gone over dozens of possible scenarios, determined how I think each one would best be handled. I could ask you to take over for me, or give the job to someone else, or just let go, let Jim Gordon take things from here. There could be good reasons to do any of those, depending on the circumstances. But when you see this, it's not going to be about what I think anymore. So no orders. No instructions. ...The thing is... you turned out good.” The tiniest bit of a smile appeared then, more in the eyes than the lips. “Better than good. Brilliant. I trust your judgement, Dick. You've earned every inch of your independence and you don't owe me a thing, so. It's up to you. Your decision.” Bruce huffed a sigh then, the small, sad smile in his eyes reappearing. “Whatever you decide, however you end up living your life... good luck, son. Take care of yourself.” He breathed in softly; his mouth fell open just a little, as if to say more, but he closed it again and reached forward to tap a key. The recording ended and the window went black.

Dick pulled in a breath, nearly choked on it. His eyes burned and the computer screen blurred out of focus. He blinked and felt wet on his cheeks.

Clark's hand settled at the base of his neck and he jumped, startled. More tears fell, hot against his skin. “ _Hell_ ,” he choked out, his shoulders curling away from Clark's touch. Dammit, he didn't have _time_ for this!

Clark's hand slid along his shoulder as the man knelt, wrapping his other arm across Dick's chest, forced into an awkward angle by the chair. Even as Dick swallowed and sniffed and scrubbed at his eyes one-handed, forcing the tears back down into the aching in his throat, he clutched at Clark's forearm with his other hand, for Clark's sake as much as his own.

“That was only three months ago,” Dick said when he could speak. “Do you think he _knew_?”

Clark shook his head. “If I know Bruce, he probably made new recordings periodically.” His voice sounded suspiciously hoarse.

Dick snorted softly, a wet noise. “Yeah.” They sat in silence for a few moments until Dick sniffed and cleared his throat. “...We have a lot of work to do.”

“Mm,” agreed Clark, and didn't let go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman and Robin hit the streets to investigate Bruce's murder. It's nothing at all like old times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O hay guyz, we've reached the plot! ...Or, at least, the plot for this first story arc; I'm writing War and Peace over here, fffffff. This chapter is dedicated to magusronin, my good friend and most faithful cheerleader. Happy birthday, dude!

“Okay, Robin–explain to me again why we can't come with you?” Cyborg crossed his arms, frowning.

In full uniform but for the mask, Dick was rifling through supplies in the Batcave, making last-minute changes to the contents of his utility belt. The Titans were clustered around him, and Vic was not the only one frowning. Dick sighed, not lifting his eyes from the drawer he was rummaging through. “First of all, Gotham City is Batman's town, and it's been well established that he discourages meta-human interference here. Secondly,” he continued in a weary, we've-been-over-this-already sort of voice, “the Titans aren't supposed to be here. We have no _reason_ to be here, and as far as everyone knows you're all still in Jump City. My presence here is going to raise enough eyebrows as it is, but at least I've got history here.” He pushed the drawer in, stopping for a moment to look up at them. “Look, we'll be fine. I'm not expecting much trouble; most of the big players are locked up. I'll call you if there's an emergency, okay? But tonight really needs to be a Batman and Robin kind of thing.”

There were sighs as the Titans reluctantly acquiesced. Beast Boy, however, wasn't quite ready to let up on the subject. “But duuuuude, what are we supposed to _do_ while you're out running around on rooftops?” he whined.

Raven fidgeted a little. “I'm with Beast Boy on this one–shocking, I know,” she added dryly. “But I don't like the idea of just... sitting around while you and Superman are out working.”

Dick's lip twitched. “Well, good, because you all have work to do.” He headed over to the Batcomputer and picked up the small pile of file folders that was stacked on the console. “Cyborg, you've still got a few finishing touches on those active holograms, right?”

“Yeah, man, it'll take me another hour or two, tops,” Cyborg replied.

“Great. Meanwhile, all of you need to study these,” Dick said, handing a file folder to each of his friends. “Each folder contains the details of your alias and everyone else's. Learn them, get comfortable with them. We'll try to keep the press at a distance, but you don't want to slip up in casual conversation with an heiress. Quiz each other, do some roleplay, whatever it takes. Okay?”

The Titans were flipping through their folders. “Please, where is this...” Starfire scrutinized the pronunciation guide, “...Ljubljana? It is a country?”

“Dude, is this a real passport?!” Gar was flipping pages, checking out the visa stamps from the countries he'd supposedly been to.

“It's a real _fake_ passport,” Dick replied dryly. He heard a loud CLANG and some muffled grumbling from the training mats and, leaving the Titans to their research, went to check up on Superman.

The Man of Steel was retrieving a batarang from where it had careened off a support pillar, a frustrated wrinkle on his forehead. Dick paused to take stock of the damage Superman had caused to the targets, training equipment, and general surroundings over the course of the afternoon. “...How's it going, Clark?”

Clark huffed a sigh. “I'm not very good with these things,” he said ruefully, holding up a battered batarang.

“It takes a lot of practice,” Dick assured him. “Don't worry about it. I should probably handle throwing the 'rangs for now. You just concentrate on being intimidating and punching people.” Dick's lip twitched. “Speaking of which, how's _that_ going?”

Clark nodded. “Good, I'm really getting the hang of it now. I'm not breaking bags anymore.”

“Excellent,” Dick said, stepping closer. “Show me.”

“...What?”

“Hit me.”

Clark frowned. “Dick....”

“We need to know you can do this in the field. So... hit me. Hit me like I work for the Riddler and I'm carrying fifty-thousand dollars in unmarked bills. Make it look good.”

Clark looked doubtful, but Dick nodded encouragement... so he hit him.

“Ooof–!!” Dick rolled end over end and slid to a stop a few yards away. He sat up coughing. Clark was at his side in a flash. “Jesus, Dick, are you okay?!”

Dick let Clark help him to his feet. “...That... was perfect,” he said when he could breathe again. “I could tell you were pulling it, but I don't think anyone else could. ...Ow. Yeah, no, that was perfect. Just like that.”

Clark's expression was a strange mix between worry and amusement. “You don't think I hit you too _hard_ , maybe?”

Dick rubbed ruefully at his ribs, eyes narrowing in what would have been a smile if only his mouth had cooperated. “I've seen Bruce do worse.”

“Master Dick, Mister Kent.” Alfred's footsteps echoed softly as he approached, carrying a neatly folded bundle in his arms. “I have made the alterations to Mister Kent's specifications.”

Clark gingerly accepted the gray and black folds of the Batsuit from Alfred. He stared down at it, one hand splayed across the emblematic yellow and black crest, the skin around his eyes looking pinched and his jaw tensed. Then he let out a sigh and lifted his head, catching and holding Dick's gaze. “This is it, huh?”

Dick nodded. “The sun set twenty minutes ago.” There was a 'ping!' and a small red light flashed on the Batcomputer's console. “And there goes the Batsignal.” He turned to Alfred. “Last night?”

“Indeed, sir,” replied Alfred, and Dick nodded again.

There was a blur of color, and where Clark had stood next to Dick and Alfred, dressed in workout sweats, he was now several yards away, facing the mirrors next to the training mats, clad in the Batsuit with the cowl thrown back. Watching himself in the mirrors, Clark slowly, deliberately pulled the cowl into place.

Clark swallowed. The silence among the inhabitants of the Cave was somber and complete; the hum of electronics and the dripping of water seemed suddenly to be deafeningly loud. Dick stepped closer, looking up into the cowl with a searching look. “...Okay?” he murmured.

“Not really,” Clark replied, his voice slightly shaky. “You?”

“No,” Dick said quietly, “not at all.” Then he smoothed the domino mask over his eyes, and when next he spoke, his voice was stronger. “Let's get to work.”

Clark squared his shoulders, stood tall, and in his best approximation of Bruce's working voice said, “Yes.”

Robin jerked his head toward the garage. “C'mon. We're taking the Batmobile.”

The Titans and Alfred trailed after them as they headed for the hulking black vehicle. Robin touched a button on his utility belt as they approached; the engine rumbled to life and the canopy slid back, the turntable spinning the Batmobile to face the Cave's exit. Starfire caught Robin's hand. “I am still wishing I could be going with you,” she said. “You will be taking of the care, yes?”

Robin offered up a small, grim smile. “Always,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. Then, with a flourish of his cape, he jumped into the passenger seat.

Clark settled into the driver's seat and the canopy slid closed over them. Clark turned to Robin and stared. Robin stared back. A few moments passed.

“I keep forgetting you can't see my facial expressions under this thing. ...Are you sure you want me to drive?”

Robin's lips twitched slightly. “You'll be fine. She drives really well, actually. Just take it easy on the gas.”

“She?”

“Clark. Drive.”

Clark shifted the Batmobile into gear and they tore out of the garage, tires squealing. Clark took the narrow, winding curves through the Batcave slowly at first, then faster as he gained confidence. When the Batmobile burst out of the Cave's hidden entrance and onto the narrow forest road, he let out an impressed whistle. “Wow. This thing has _grip_.”

“Not bad, right?”

“No. Not bad.” Clark tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “So, uh... I'm going to need to know where I'm going.”

Robin was already leaning forward, tapping at the controls on the console. “I'm setting the satellite navigation. ...Just follow the nice computer lady's directions.” A map blinked onto the screen.

Clark snorted. They drove in silence for a while. Then Clark cleared his throat, glancing sidelong at Robin. “So... you and Starfire, huh?” A mischievous, lightly teasing smile hovered on his lips.

Robin gave Clark a flat look that, even through the domino mask, clearly conveyed, '...Now? Really?' “Yes. Me and Starfire.” His tone was less than inviting.

Clark's smirk widened into a grin and he turned his attention back to the road. “Good for you,” he pronounced cheerfully.

Robin snorted softly and didn't say anything; then, softly, “...Thanks.” Clark merely smiled.

The dirt and gravel road they were on emptied onto a more heavily traveled, asphalt-paved one, leaving the cover of the trees behind. The Batsignal hung yellow in the clouds, casting its baleful glare down on the miscreants of Gotham City. Clark regarded it solemnly for a moment, his heart sinking a little. “...We gonna answer that?”

“ _I'm_ going to,” corrected Robin. “Commissioner Gordon knew Batman too well. We can't let him get a good look at you just yet.” He heaved a sigh. “We're not going to be able to keep that up for very long, but... I don't know what else to do.”

Clark nodded. “One thing at a time, right? First things first. And the first thing is....”

Robin's eyes narrowed. “Find Bruce's killer.”

~ ~ ~

Commissioner James Gordon stood on the roof of GCPD Headquarters, staring up at the black and yellow stamp of the Batsignal on Gotham's sky. The sprinkling rain that had persisted all day had finally let up, but the sullen, looming clouds remained, threatening more precipitation, and cool, humid gusts yanked at the tails of Gordon's trench coat. Gordon didn't bother watching for Batman's arrival. He'd long since given that up; whichever direction he faced, the Dark Knight always came up behind him.

...If he showed up at all. “Come on, Batman, come on,” Gordon murmured to himself. “You stood me up last night, don't make it two for two.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” said a voice that was decidedly not Batman's.

Gordon whirled. “Robin?!”

Robin smiled a little as he approached. “It's been a long time, Commissioner.” He switched off the Batsignal.

“It certainly has been! You look like you've grown about half a foot! Well, well, good to see you, Boy Wonder.” Jim offered his hand; Robin took it. “...I thought you were in California these days, with those other kids, the Teen Titans.”

“I am,” said Robin. “I'm just here to give Batman a little extra help.”

Jim nodded. “And where is the Dark Knight this evening? He going to make an appearance?”

“He's busy. Chasing leads on the other side of town,” Robin said. “We decided it would be more efficient if I came alone.”

“Busy, huh?” Gordon scratched at the stubble of that morning's shave. “He didn't show last night either.”

“Busy then, too.”

“Hmm.”

Robin crossed his arms. “What've you got for us tonight, Commissioner?”

Jim sighed, looking tired. “It's the Wayne shooting. There's more to it than just bad luck. The pieces don't add up.”

Robin's eyes narrowed. “I agree. What do you have so far?”

Gordon tugged out the file he had tucked under his arm and handed it over. Robin flipped it open and started scanning through it while Gordon summarized. “The shooter's been identified as Richard Murray, 43. He was a private in the army before the onset of paranoid schizophrenia at age 19. He was released from a military hospital into his parents' care, but following an altercation with his family in 1990 he fell off the map and has apparently been living homeless ever since. Blood tests when we brought him in showed high concentrations of diphenhydramine. No idea where he got the gun; the serial numbers are filed off, no fingerprints on it besides his. The tuxedo seems to be bespoke–there's no tags. Looks to be about ten years old, judging by the style.” He jerked a chin at the file. “All the forensics reports are in there. ...Do you want to take a look at the evidence yourself?”

Robin narrowed his eyes as he scanned the reports. “Mmmm,” he said; then, “No, maybe later, thank you Commissioner. This is enough to get started with.” He could sneak into the evidence room at any time if he needed to, but just now he wanted to hit the streets. He was going to need the whole night. “...Anything else for me, Commissioner?”

“No, son. Just this. Find out who pumped Murray full of deliriants, put a gun in his hand, and walked him into a crowd of civilians. Find out who did it and why. Bruce Wayne was–Wayne was a friend. And a good man. He took a bullet for that girl, not many would've done that.” Gordon's eyes glittered; there was a fierce note in his voice that was something like pleading. “Find him. Find his killer.”

Handing the file folder back, Robin swallowed carefully, willing his voice to be normal, forcibly removing every emotion but determination. “Wayne has done good things for this city,” he said, Bruce's last name feeling strange in his mouth. “We won't stop until those responsible are brought to justice, Commissioner, I can promise you that.”

Gordon sighed, tucking the file folder back under his arm. “I know you won't, son.” He ducked his head to dig through his pockets for his pipe, tobacco, and matches; Robin took this opportunity to drift surreptitiously out of Jim's peripheral vision and towards the edge of the roof. “Well, it's good to see you again,” Jim said, sticking the pipe into his mouth and talking around the stem while he fished a match out of the box. “You gonna stick around for a while?”

Robin paused at the edge of the roof. He didn't have an answer for that, so he tipped backwards and fell, shoving off with his toes and wrapping his cape around him to keep it from fluttering and making noise. His blood sang to the familiar sensation of free-fall, and he pulled a grappler from his belt, aiming it at the cornice of a neighboring building. Before he could fire it, however, he felt himself change direction, felt the stiff leather and kevlar of Batman's gauntlets wrapped around him. Half a second later Clark gently lowered him to a rooftop. Robin looked around; they were several blocks away from police headquarters. He blinked. “Well, that's one way to do it,” he said, and put his grappler away.

Clark touched lightly down next to him, his soft smile looking strange and out of place framed by Batman's cowl. “Commissioner Gordon's chuckling. I think he missed you.”

Robin looked out over the lights of the city. “I assume you were—”

“Listening in? Yeah, I'm up to speed.”

“Someone definitely set this up; for what reason, it's unclear. Finding out who will be tough. Whoever it is made very sure we can't use the gun or the tux to track him down.”

“Or her,” Clark pointed out.

Robin waved a hand, brushing the comment aside. Gender pronouns were irrelevant at this point; his mind was already forging on ahead. “...Murray's how we do it. He's our lead.”

Clark considered this. “Murray's been living on the streets for years. The homeless community is pretty tightly knit; maybe somebody saw something.”

Robin nodded sharply. “I know exactly where to start.”


End file.
